In the deathlands of night,
where you can't hide from what has gone,
the eyes of recollection are ripped open.
And once the eyelids of your spirit have been shredded,
all you can do is stare, stare, stare.
Back across the years
into the puddle of possible pasts,
searching for just the right reflection.
The perfection you put your finger on
and felt pulsing beneath your passion.
The fragment of time, folded up,
and stored away, like a ward
a barrier against forgetfulness.
This is all that memory demands.
A little place to call home,
where doubt and hope don't dwell alone,
a vault for each shout, each tear, and each moan.
A freezer to store all the flesh, and burnt bones,
of a thousand sunlit paradises you saw
destroyed before your eyes.
A room with a voice
that can pierce the brashest din
of just-forget-me's,
and we-never-should-have-been's.
A land of straight razors, and special souvenirs
we keep safely nestled between our fragile ears
a monument of all we are
a record of our years.
An echo that will never disappear.